


color theory

by nancypants (cah_avengers)



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, daniel jacobi is on their watchlist, goddard characters work for the fbi, no romance between rachel and kep but uh they do get down, one very tiny instance of self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-13 00:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13559169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cah_avengers/pseuds/nancypants
Summary: FBI Agent Warren Kepler, restricted to desk work post-injury, is tasked with monitoring Daniel Jacobi to determine whether or not he poses a threat to the United States Government or its citizens.Soulmate AU. The one where people see in black and white/grey-scale until they see their soul mate.Sorry I turned a joke into real fic.





	color theory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dansnotavampire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dansnotavampire/gifts).



> so i saw this and thought, "kepcobi maybe?"  
> https://pulserifle.tumblr.com/post/170391429983/you-know-those-soulmate-aus-in-fanfics-where
> 
> My DARLING Danny, (@dansnotavampire) gave me some dope ideas for this, so...go read their other dope ideas

The office is cold when Warren arrives for his shift, so he leaves his coat on as he settles in at his desk. Cutter always keeps it cold. There’s a lockbox over the thermostat. 

He sets his briefcase aside, unzips his coat, and turns on his computer monitors. He sighs and runs his hand through his hair.

The monitor blinks to life, the FBI logo bold in the middle of the screen.

“Warren!” Hands land on Warren’s shoulders and he sits upright. 

“Morning, Sir,” he says automatically. 

“That limp is getting  _much_  better. How does your leg feel?” Cutter’s voice is sweet yet cold, cuts through his head like a brain freeze.

“Better. I’ve been off painkillers for a few days now.”

“Wonderful!” Cutter’s hands grip Warren’s shoulders tightly, pressing into his tense trapezius muscles. “Goodness, you need a massage, Warren. You know, I know a fantastic masseuse. I could give you her card.”

“I appreciate the offer, but no thank you. Actually, I think it’s all this desk work that’s making me so tense. If I could just get back in the field—“

“Warren, my boy…I wouldn’t take a risk like that. You should know that by now. Once that leg is all healed up and you’ve adjusted to your lack of depth perception, I’ll consider it. But I want to see flawless accuracy scores at the range before I let you leave this desk.”

Warren’s jaw clenches and the strap of his new eyepatch suddenly feels uncomfortable against his skin. “Of course, Sir.”

“Now. I need you to keep an eye—hah!—on someone for me while you finish filing your reports, okay?”

Warren nods and quickly logs into the agent portal. “Someone from the watchlist?”

“Mm…might be nothing. But I want you to make sure of it for me before we kick him down to low priority.”

“What’s his deal? Extremist?”

“Doesn’t seem like it.  _But_ , he seems to be quite fond of explosives and pyrotechnics. I had Rachel send you a memo.”

“Got it.”

Warren feels Cutter’s presence begin to retreat. But then he stops. “Oh, and Warren? We do have a dress code. The coat rack is there for a reason.” And then he’s gone, back to his office. 

Warren stands up stiffly, hands braced on his desk. He takes a deep breath and limps past his colleagues back to the front of the office, and removes his coat to hang it up.

When he’s finally back at his desk, skin prickling against the cold, he pulls up several documents on one screen, then turns to the other to look up his mark for the day. 

Daniel Kenneth Jacobi. Easy enough to find with his old military connections. Dishonorably discharged…he could easily hold some animosity toward military institutions for that. 

So Warren digs deeper, skimming over his records, a report of the incident that ended up with two casualties and a significant loss of property and assets.

Since then, a handful of blows to his credit score with past due bills. Credit statements detailing a large amount of money spent on alcohol and, as expected, all of the classic components for explosives.

He runs a quick sweep of the guy’s social media. He’s not very active on it, and Warren finds nothing that looks like an angry rant or vaguely threatening. Jacobi must have forgotten he had an Instagram, because there are only three pictures: a stray cat, a bowl of cereal, and a Cheeto that happened to have a phallic shape. The last was posted on April 20th, 2010. Over a year ago. 

_Saved this pic_ _so I could post it on_ _4/20. Fucking Cheetos, man._

Warren laughs through his nose and closes the page.

The guy seems more like a run of the mill fuck-up burnout rather than an actual threat.

Nevertheless, the man knows his way around C-4, so Warren breaks into his laptop and turns off the indicator light before turning on the webcam.

There’s nothing of interest yet; just an empty room, so Warren pushes himself to his feet and limps to the break room for a cup of coffee.

“Well hello, Warren.” Rachel is there, leaning back against the counter just close enough to the coffee machine that it’ll make Warren’s chore uncomfortable. “How are you on this fine Thursday evening?”

“Great. And you, Rachel? You look nice."

She gives him a hollow smile. "You up for a round at the range tonight?"

"I'm on shift until two A.M.," he says without looking at her. He reaches past her for the coffee pot and fills a mug.

"Oh, come on. Can't step away for half an hour? God knows you need the practice."

He lifts his chin and turns to her. "You could go without me. I know you need to blow off steam every now and then or you'll bite your assistant's head off. Anyway, got work to do. Have a nice night, Ms. Young."

The screen has changed when Warren returns to his desk. It's dark, and for a moment Warren thinks Jacobi must have closed his laptop, but then he sees movement and realizes the thing is being carried outside. The computer is set down, and Warren has a view of a field. There's a platform made of bottle crates, but that's about all he can see, so Warren takes a sip of his coffee, sets it aside, then adjusts the brightness of the feed. There's a pop-up in the bottom right window of Jacobi's screen displayed on Warren's monitor that informs him a blue tooth connected device has been installed. It's a second camera; a handheld camcorder. Warren quickly plugs in his headphones and brings up the feed for the second camera on his other monitor, ignoring his reports and emails.

"Hooookay. So, last time didn't go  _so_  great. My fuses were shit. But tonight is going to be...fucking spectacular," that must be Jacobi's voice. "I'm gonna take a video this time so I can watch it later, whenever this bullshit universe decides to give me color."

Warren's brow furrows. The camera is still pointed at the ground, showing him grass and gopher holes....in black and white. Warren doesn't see in color either. The universe's way of telling him he hasn't met his soul mate.

The camera is set on the ground and Jacobi's sneakers come into view as he approaches the platform and kneels to begin lighting the fuses. 

Warren grabs his phone, ready to call in an emergency if Jacobi is lighting something dangerous.

A flick of a lighter, bright white traveling up the dull grey fuses that are twisted together before trailing off in different directions.

Jacobi picks up the camera again and jogs back away from the platform, aiming his camera at the sky.

A moment later, a whistle as something ascends, and then a bang. White explodes against the black background of the sky. Big, bright, a fizzling as the pieces flutter back down to the ground.

"Whoo!" Jacobi cheers and the camera shakes. A second later, a second firework explodes.

So the guy likes fireworks. He'll definitely have the cops on his ass, but Warren wouldn't consider this man dangerous.

Suddenly the camera angle changes, and Jacobi points it toward his face. "Okay, so this time instead of…”

Warren raises a brow, and then blinks slowly as something begins to change. Daniel Jacobi is an attractive man, and he has...well, Warren doesn't know what color his eyes are. He doesn't know the word for it. He'll figure it out later. All he can do now is stare. Stare while Jacobi explains whatever the fuck he's explaining. It's dark out—it's night—but slowly, the color of Jacobi's face and hair, and hoodie bleed into Warren's vision. They're dull and muted, but still more than anything Warren has ever seen. He swallows against the lump in his throat and looks up from his monitor. His colleague is wearing a vibrant blouse. The color—whatever it is, loud and warm—hits him like an arrow through the heart. Warren has to cover his mouth to hide his sharp intake of breath. He looks back at the screen. The camera is no longer on Jacobi; he's pointed it back at the sky.

He can't help it, he gasps when the next firework explodes. It's beautiful. It's overwhelming. His good eye is stinging with the hint of tears and Warren has to fight down his emotion. He watches, breathless, while the rest of Jacobi's display runs its course. He has no idea what Jacobi has been saying this whole time.

Realization dawns slowly. It's Jacobi. He's the reason Warren can suddenly  _see_. Because Warren has interacted many times with everyone in this office before. If the stories are to believed, this man who got himself on the FBI's terrorist watch list is Warren's soul mate.

Warren minimizes everything on his desktop and pulls up a google search of the word "rainbow."

The results hit him like a freight train. No more greyscale. No more muddiness. The colors stand out, each one so unique and beautiful that he thinks, if he let himself, he could cry. He finds a labeled color chart, one made specifically for Warren's situation. Yellow. That's the color Angela is wearing. Red, green, orange, purple...the colors of Jacobi's fireworks. And then, beyond the basic colors, he finds amber. Jacobi's eyes. Deep brown for his hair. A lighter shade of brown for his skin. 

Warren blinks and quickly digs through his briefcase—just black—for something. He retrieves a small pocket mirror and looks at himself. So that’s what blond looks like. The eye he still has is green. The scars peeking out from behind the eyepatch are pink and edging toward red.

A laugh escapes Warren's throat and he grimaces. A couple of heads turn to look at him and he smiles and nods awkwardly.

He closes the search tab and pulls back up the feed from Jacobi's webcam. The laptop is being carried back inside, and Warren holds his breath, watches as the surroundings become brighter when Jacobi flicks on a light inside of his bedroom.

Jacobi sets the laptop down on his desk and sits.

Warren watches him. Watches the concentration on Jacobi's face as he pulls up the camcorder's upload file on his computer and skims through the video before renaming it. Jacobi smiles to himself, satisfied with his work.

Jacobi really isn't bad to look at. Especially those eyes. Warren has already decided on his favorite color.

It's not long before Jacobi gets up from his desk and snaps the laptop shut.

Warren stands up abruptly and carries his mug back to the breakroom, trying not to get distracted by each new color he sees along the way. He slams as much of his coffee as he can stomach, then rinses the mug. He pulls out his phone and texts Rachel.

_be at the gun range in 5_

The gun range is a dull, cold place. The floor and walls are cement, and the lack of color here is like taking a cold shower in Warren's current emotional state. The dark grey of his gun is comforting. The bullets are silver, with a hint of gold in the end. It's the perfect dose of color to remind him that this is still happening.

Rachel's arrival brings more color into the room. Her tight skirt is grey, but her blouse is a lovely shade of purple.

He actually smiles at her.

“So…you changed your mind,” she says, taking the booth next to him and setting down her gun case.

“You were right; I need the practice.”

She looks him over with eyes narrowed. “Hm.”

The addition of color to his sight does nothing to improve his aim, but he’s still not as terrible as he was the first week back to work.

Rachel can’t get a read on him, completely thrown off by his sudden change in mood. Warren likes that. 

He miraculously finishes out his shift, and by three in the morning, he’s back home.

The color scheme of his apartment is acceptable, he decides, as he makes a beeline toward the liquor cabinet. He’d hired a designer to help him pick things out, a woman with color vision. It’d taken him five years to find out whether she’d done a decent job or not.

He runs his hands over the deep mahogany wood before opening the cabinet. His gaze traces over the bottles with their different colored labels filled with liquor varying shades of brown. He can’t help but grin when he settles on the bottle of Balvenie, noting that the scotch is the same color of Daniel’s eyes in the light of his bedroom lamp.

Warren pours himself a generous amount and sits in his recliner.

It’s nice to sit, the alcohol softening everything, and just take this new world in. The only light in the room comes from the street lamps filtering through the blinds, so the colors are softer, darker, easier to process.

He thinks about how all of his suits and ties are black, considers going out and buying himself something nice and red. 

Blood is red. He’s always heard the idioms about it. He’s seen blood more times than he can count but he’s never really  _seen_  it. 

Out of curiosity, he retrieves a knife from his coffee table and unsheathes it. It’s his father’s Ka-Bar from his time serving as a Marines. It’s heavy and comfortable in Warren’s hand. 

He sets it down and strips out of his black suit jacket, tie, and white button-up, relaxing back into the chair now in his undershirt, arms exposed. The brown freckles against his lighter skin, and faded, pink-white scars  catch his attention for a moment. Then he picks up the knife and rests it gently against his skin. It doesn’t take much pressure—he keeps it well sharpened—and a moment later, drops of crimson spring up from under the knife as Warren presses it down.

He wipes the knife on his button-up that’s resting in his lap, then watches the blood travel over his skin and drop onto the pure white fabric, so starkly contrasting even in the dim light. 

It’s a good color. He likes it. He’s definitely going to buy a crimson tie. In fact, he’s never going to wear a black tie again.

He’ll have to come up with some story about meeting his apparent soul mate in a bar before he returns to work tomorrow, because Cutter will notice the change, the addition of color. He notices all of these things. 

The cut is shallow, so Warren holds his shirt against it to stop the bleeding.

He closes his eye and rests for a few moments, casually wondering what he’s going to do about Jacobi.

Warren has never considered what he’d do with a soul mate if he had one. 

…but now he does have one. And he knows his name, his location, his god damn  _shoe size_. He could be on a plane by the morning and standing at Daniel’s doorstep in a matter of hours. But he won't do that because that would mean fabricating a story to explain the trip to Cutter. If Cutter knew Warren paid a visit to a man on their watch-list, there would be follow up. A  _lot_  of follow up. And it’s not worth it.

He just wants to return the favor. He’s not interested in pursuing any sort of relationship with Daniel, but…he wants him to see his fireworks. The way they were meant to be seen.

Mentally, he’s exhausted, so he dozes off, dreaming in color for the first time.

When he wakes up a couple hours later, he has a plan.

He arrives at work the next day wearing a dark red silk tie with a gold tie clip. As he shirks his coat and hangs it on the rack, he notices Cutter remove his feet from his desk and sit up. He’s looking at him through the glass walls, wearing an amused smirk. Rachel is there, sitting on the desk. She glances over her shoulder at Warren and rolls her eyes. 

Cutter stands and grins at Warren now before beckoning him to the office.

Warren takes his time, expression schooled as he limps, more dignified now, past his colleagues. The ones who are married or settled in their relationships with their soulmates wear a knowing smile when they notice the splash of color. He steps into Cutter’s office and closes the door. 

“Oh, look at you, Warren!” Cutter quickly makes his way around his desk and places his hands on Warren’s chest, framing the tie. “Such a lovely color. And you’re already learning to coordinate with your accessories. Maybe I need to get you gold cuff links to mark the occasion.” He smiles and pats Warren’s chest.

Finally Rachel understand what’s going on. “When did this happen?” 

“On my way home,” Warren lies. "Ran into someone out taking their dog for a late night walk."

“Is that so?”

“Mm…she was lovely.”

“When’s the wedding?” Rachel deadpans.

“Oh, she was nice, and pretty too. But I’m not going to see her again.”

Both Cutter’s and Rachel’s brows go up in surprise. 

“Really? Why is that, Warren?” Cutter leans back against his desk, intrigued. 

“We’ve met…things are different now. But I’m not rearranging my life. I have my home, I have my job, and I like things the way they are.”

This pleases Cutter. He hums and cocks his head. “You really are one of my favorites, Warren. Well, I see your accuracy scores have improved a little…you’re on your way to getting back in the field! Now, run along and do your job, mmkay?”

“Yes, Sir,” Warren nods, then makes eye contact with Rachel before he goes. 

She looks displeased. Not jealous, not annoyed…frustrated.

He smiles, to hopefully add to her frustration, and walks away.

Warren makes progress on his reports, then pulls up the feed from Jacobi's webcam again. He's asleep while Netflix plays the next episode of some sitcom.

That's perfect.

From his phone, Warren sends a contact request To Daniel's skype under a dummy account. He then opens Skype on Daniel's laptop and accepts the request. And that's it. He closes the program that lets him control Daniel's computer, and goes about his job.

As he's walking up the steps to his apartment after his rotation, he receives a text.

_mind if I come over?_

Warren smirks, typing a reply as he slides his key into the lock.

_fine. b_ _ut_ _im_ _eating dinner first. p_ _ick up a nice red if you plan on having some_

He pushes the door open.

"Too late; I'm already here," Rachel says, rising from Warren's favorite armchair.

He sighs and closes the door before divesting himself of his coat. "Breaking and entering is rude."

"You said I could come over."

" _After_ the fact."

"Does it matter?"

Warren shrugs and passes her to get started on their meal.

"Tell me what it's like," she commands, taking a seat on a barstool.

"What...what's like, Ms. Young?" He quickly gathers his ingredients and supplies.

"I'm really not in the mood, Kepler."

"I see...well, I can't really describe it to you. You just have to experience it for yourself," he says, knowing it'll just wind her up further.

"If I wanted some bullshit answer like that I'd go read one of the billion blog posts about the change. I guess I  _wrongly_ assumed we were both adults, and you'd give me a straight answer."

"Honestly, Rachel," Warren says, pausing in his food prep, taking on a serious tone, "I can't do it justice."

"You're so fond of your words, so  _use_ them. Try."

Warren sighs. "It's...everything has more depth, meaning. Like you've been on the trial version of life and now you finally get the premium."

"Are you talking about...seeing color, or coming face to face with your soulmate?" She raises a brow.

"Oh," he scoffs, "seeing color. I don't give a shit about the other stuff."

"Good. All right, continue."

He laughs and starts the burner. They haven't gone this long in each other's presence without insulting the other in two years. "It started slowly. I noticed one color beyond the grey-scale, and then others began to bleed in. It was so strange and new that it was almost like being in a dream."

She says nothing, waiting for more information.

"With color, there is...nuance. Like when I had a little chat with Angela today, I complimented the color of her eyes and she blushed. It wasn't a huge difference, but her cheeks went pink and it was...interesting to watch."

"What else? Did you notice anything about Cutter?"

Warren cocks his head while he considers the question. "No... actually, he wasn't wearing any color. I mean, even his eyes are a blue that's so close to grey I could hardly see a difference from before. Even in color, he gives nothing away."

"Hm."

"Don't worry, Rachel, someday it'll happen for—"

She glares at him. It's the same phrase every child has grown up hearing. Someday it'll happen for you.

He changes direction. "You sure you aren't jealous that I've found my soul mate and she's not you?"

"Warren," Rachel begins, and Warren smiles innocently. Honestly, he's just done with the almost comfortable atmosphere that's developed in the past few minutes and wants to see how she's going to remedy the situation. "If you were my soul mate and I saw color after looking at you, I'd carve my eyes out with a spork."

"Ooh, I like that. That's a good one."

She leaves him to read one of his books while he finishes cooking.

They eat in silence, both scrolling through their phones and sipping whatever red wine Warren had in his cabinet. It doesn't pair perfectly with the pork chops, but it's good enough.

They have sex after that, and the whole affair is radically different to the times before, but only for Warren. There's so much more to  _look_ at that he's worried she might take his newfound interest in  _looking_ to mean something beyond natural curiosity. The red marks left behind are prettier, much more satisfying than the vague dark smudges he used to see.

They sit on his balcony afterward and Warren smokes a cigarette. Wordlessly he offers it to her, and though she wrinkles her nose in disgust, she takes it anyway.

"You're a lucky bastard, Kepler."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"Because I would kill to have the change the same way you did. Meet my 'soul mate', get my color, and then part ways forever. That's ideal."

"Mm...maybe you should try a dating app."

She shoots him a look.

"All right, maybe not. But if you got out more instead of following around at Cutter's heels, your chances of meeting the one would be a lot higher."

"You think I don't fucking know that? He should have put me in the vacancy your...accident left. But he put some idiot in instead. I fucking deserve that job."

"It's  _my_ job, Young. He's not going to give it to you temporarily." He won't mention that it seems obvious to him that Cutter keeps Rachel at HQ because she's too clever to risk in the field. She'd love that, to think he's jealous of her.

She laughs and takes a long drag on the cigarette. Warren enjoys watching the orange burn travel up the spent end before she flicks the ash away. "Don’t be so sure. You're basically useless right now. You're certainly never going to be back on the top of your game. He might as well make that desk officially yours... Hey, maybe I'll get you a name plate for it."

"Fuck off. I just need to retrain my sight."

"And, how much longer has your physical therapist predicted until your leg is recovered?"

He's silent.

"Yeah, thought so. You fucked up, and you  _got_ fucked up. You should just accept that."

Warren takes back the cigarette. "You've always underestimated me."

"Unless Cutter lets his Dr. Frankenstein give you a new leg and a new eye, your fieldwork is over."

"His what?"

Rachel slowly turns to look at him, looking entirely too pleased with herself. He doesn't like that look. "You haven’t heard about her yet?"

"...no."

Rachel laughs. "Well, this is  _something_ , isn't it. He's mentioned her to me a few times. I wonder why he's never said anything to you...hm."

"Who is she?" Warren asks, ignoring that familiar feeling of competition and annoyance settling in his stomach.

"Don't know; never met her. But, I know more than you, and that's what matters."

Unfortunately, she's right.


End file.
